Donnie, keeping the bat at his side, goes over and grabs the MD 20/20 from Mikey.
“You want some?” Mikey asks. “Have some. I’m in a sharing mood.”
“A smart guy,” Donnie says over his shoulder to Pags and Sottile.
“Real smart, seems like,” Pags says.
Donnie looks down at the bottle. Red Grape Wine flavor. He’s had MD 20/20 a handful of times, sure, but only the Orange Jubilee and Peaches & Cream. Thunderbird used to be his poison when he was coming up. He flicks off the cap and takes a long swig. Then he brings it over and passes it to Pags, who takes a quick hit and passes it to Sottile, who hesitates, wiping the mouth of the bottle with his sleeve before nipping at it like it’s Dom Perignon.
“You been drinking this?” Donnie asks Antonina. “He’s been giving this to you?”
“No,” Antonina says.
Donnie raises the bat across his chest. “You been feeding bum wine to a fifteen-year-old girl?” he asks Mikey.
“Fifteen?” Mikey says. “I thought she was sixteen, I swear.”
Donnie gets the bottle back from Sottile. He guzzles it, drinking what’s left. He belches and chucks the bottle over his shoulder. The glass shatters against the concrete over by the chain link fence behind the basketball hoop.
Mikey gulps. He’s sweating.
“Just let us go,” Antonina says.
“Where’s your shirt?” Donnie asks.
“Right over there,” she says, pointing into the dark.
“Go get it. You want the whole neighborhood to think you’re a little puttana?”
Antonina keeps her arms crossed over her chest and rushes toward the building. Donnie can make out her movements. Only barely. She’s by a dark doorway, reaching down, picking up a shirt. She slips it on. She comes back. Her shirt’s pink, and it says ASTROLAND in white script.
“Your folks know where you are?” Donnie says to Antonina.
She shakes her head.
“Maybe I should go over and talk to your dad. I bet he’d like to know what you’re doing out here.”
“Please don’t. Please put the bat down. Mikey’s nice.”
“I’m scaring you, huh? Maybe you need some scaring.”
“Donnie,” Sottile says, “let her go. She’s a kid.”
“And what about him?” Donnie says, stepping closer to Mikey with the bat out. “He’s in college. Mr. Fucking Chin. He’s got coward blood running in his veins, let me tell you.”
He’s talking about Mikey’s old man, the degenerate, but he doesn’t say it outright. Mikey doesn’t know Donnie, doesn’t know he does side work for Big Time Tommy, maybe doesn’t even know how deep in shit Giuseppe is.
“Look, Mr. Parascandolo,” Antonina says, level-headed. “It was my idea for Mikey to come here. I thought the schoolyard would be dark and quiet. I snuck out to meet him. I was stupid. It was stupid.”
“It was stupid,” Donnie says. “Very stupid.”
“We’re being respectful. We’re not giving you any trouble. Just let us go.”
“Let’s just go, yeah,” Sottile says. “This is over.”
Donnie looks at Pags. “What do you think?”
“It’s not right, that’s for sure,” Pags says. “The wine. The shit in his ears. He’s too old for her, I agree about that.”
Donnie steps closer to Antonina. “A girl like you just don’t know how to use your head, and that’s a shame. You’re young. You got a lot of years ahead of you for mistakes. You should think. Next time you might not encounter cops nice like us.”
“I’ll think,” she says.
Donnie turns his focus back to Mikey. “You shouldn’t have come here, you know that, right?”
Mikey nods, staggers a bit. He’s maybe a little drunk off that bum wine.
“You heard me?” Donnie continues. “You shouldn’t be with a girl like this. You know that, right? She’s too young. She’s got decent parents.”
Another nod.
“Next time you don’t have the luck to bump into cops like us, I can assure you of that. You’ll be handcuffed and locked up. You fuck a fifteen-year-old, you’re a sex offender.” Donnie pauses. “But maybe you don’t give a shit. And maybe you don’t give a shit for cops. Maybe you and your ‘crust punk’ friends spit on cops? Huh? That’s what you do?” He mimes spitting on the ground. “‘Fucking pigs,’ I can see you saying it now.”
Donnie likes seeing the fear in Mikey’s eyes. He likes the idea that the kid started out one place, thinking he was gonna just score a piece of pussy, and that he’s ending up here, practically shitting his pants, tuned down totally by a tough guy with a shield behind him. Donnie feels as good as he’s felt in a long fucking time. Pags is riding the vibe, too. Throwing a fright into a freak like this. Good old-fashioned fun. Sottile, not so much. But that’s okay. Sottile’s maybe a little bit too nice, a little bit too soft, but that’s one of the things Donnie likes about him. Sometimes it’s good to have a fat, soft angel on one shoulder to keep you out of too much trouble.
“Come on,” Sottile says, reaching out and prodding Donnie in the ribs. “We’re all finished here.”
Antonina gives a look of relief, like with Sottile there it’s possible they’ll get out of this soon.
Maybe, Donnie’s thinking, he should give the girl more shit. “You were gonna let this punk screw you, weren’t you?” Donnie says to her.
Antonina knows better than to respond at this point.
When Mikey opens his mouth and starts to talk, Donnie instinctively lifts the bat one-handed and cracks Mikey in the side of the head with it.
Mikey drops to his knees, one hand pressed over his ear, the fingers extended out over his temple and forehead, the other hand on the concrete, keeping him up. There’s some blood showing in his hair. Donnie clocked him good.
“Jesus Christ,” Sottile says.
Antonina goes over and puts her hand on Mikey’s back. Donnie looks at her. Her face is saying a million things, but she can’t make words. She’s got fear and regret in her eyes.
“You okay?” she finally asks Mikey.
“You learned something tonight,” Donnie says to Mikey. “What not to do. How not to be. Straighten up before it’s too late.”
“That was fucked, Donnie,” Sottile says.
Donnie snaps back at Sottile: “You got a bad streak of limp-wrist in you, you know that?”
“Mikey, you okay?” Antonina asks again.
Mikey’s still on his knees, wincing, his eyes squeezed shut.
“He’ll survive,” Donnie says. He turns and leads the way out of the schoolyard, Pags and Sottile fast on his heels, leaving Antonina huddled over Mikey. “Let’s go to the Wrong Number,” he says to Pags and Sottile.
“Sure thing,” Pags says, laughing. “That was fucking funny, Donnie, you playing Whac-A-Mole with that kid’s melon. Maybe you knocked some smarts into him.”
“Fucking idiots,” Donnie says, thinking about Mikey’s face tattoo, his stretched earlobes, his dirty hoodie, his crust punk pals or whatever, and thinking about his arms around little Antonina Divino. They got doom ahead of them, he knows that much. “I could use about ten million beers.”
Blue Sticks, their other main haunt, is a cop bar, but the Wrong Number is just a plain old neighborhood dive. It’s where Donnie met Suzy. He took to spending more and more time hiding out there after Gabe died and Donna left. It’s only a few blocks from his house.
When they show up at the Wrong Number now, he, Pags, and Sottile stroll in, triumphant-seeming, as if they’ve just won a softball game in clutch fashion. Donnie sets his bat in the corner like it’s an umbrella.
Maddie, the bartender, is crumpled on a stool near the register, smoking up a storm. She’s wiry and grizzled, wearing a wool hat even though it’s not cold, drinking her gin out of an empty black olive can, a pack of unfiltered Pall Malls in the breast pocket of her bowling shirt. Three other old bastards sit at the bar with Buds. It’s dark except for t
he neon beer lights and the dull bulbs dangling from loose sockets in the ceiling. The TV’s showing the news, a white line zipping up and down the screen. The sound of the reporters babbling on is the only noise in the joint.
“What’d you fucks do, rescue a cat from a tree?” Maddie says, grinning behind her cigarette.
“That’s firemen,” Pags says.
“We just did some off-the-books etiquette training,” Donnie says, bellying up to the bar. “Give us three shots of Jack and three Buds.”
Pags and Sottile settle on stools on either side of him.
Maddie moves slowly but gathers their beers and then pours their shots in glasses that Donnie can only assume the best about.
Donnie raises his shot glass and waits for Pags and Sottile to lift theirs. “Chin-chin,” he says, tapping their glasses and then putting back the shot. He follows it with a quick pull from his beer.
Pags and Sottile take their sweet time with the shots.
“You see what I did there?” Donnie says. “‘Chin-chin’ in honor of our good friend Chin out there.”
“You think that’s like a sex thing, that tattoo?” Pags asks.
“Fuck you talking about?” Donnie says. “A sex thing how?”
“I don’t know. Like witch shit. He’s upstate with those hippies doing god-knows-what. They’re maybe fucking goats in the woods, you know?”
Donnie laughs, finally plopping down on his own stool. “That’s just drunk assholes, getting their kicks, waking up to realize they look like monsters. Where you gonna get a job with that shit on your face?”
“And what’s with the ears? Must fuck up your ears pretty good to jam those things in there.”
“Maybe he gets fucked through his big earholes,” Donnie says.
They laugh.
“You didn’t have to whack him like that,” Sottile says.
“I’m getting sick of your negativity,” Donnie says, flashing a smile. “Besides, it’s only a matter of time before that kid winds up in the same spot his old man’s in. Speaking of which, consider what we did a warm-up for tomorrow with Giuseppe.”
Donnie motions for Maddie to refill their shot glasses. She comes back with the bottle of Jack. Donnie tosses a couple of twenties on the bar. Maddie pours the shots and takes money for the two rounds, leaving the change piled there in front of him. Donnie loves to see money sitting on a bar. His uncle Pencil Pat—skinny as a rail, the smooth-dressing fuck—used to do that at his hangout, the Cockroach Inn. Throw down a few bills and just let the bartender pull from it as he needed to pay for drinks. Something about it makes Donnie feel on top of things.
“Chin-chin,” he says again, downing the second shot. Pags and Sottile follow suit.
On the TV, the news winds down. The WPIX station identification bumper comes on the screen. Donnie zones out looking at it, the two 1s looking like the Twin Towers wrapped in a circle. It’s hypnotic as fuck. Designed that way, probably. Maybe that’s all TV is. Hypnotism.
Pags and Sottile are watching the tube now too, nursing their beers.
A commercial plays for Lucille Roberts. Broads in spandex working out. Next is an old-timer in stupid glasses pouring cereal into a bowl, saying something Donnie can’t make out. This one’s for Total cereal.
Donnie’s not even sure what time it is. Maybe eleven. There’s no clock on the wall in the Wrong Number, which is a good thing. Maddie locks up at some point, but there are nights she just doesn’t close. Some guys, they sleep right there at the bar or in a booth or they just keep drinking all night. Maybe tonight will be one of those nights for him, Pags, and Sottile. They’re not on the job tomorrow. Their only obligation is the Giuseppe thing for Big Time Tommy.
Cheers comes on now. There it is, confirmed. Eleven o’clock. Still early. Donnie angles his head and watches for a couple of minutes. He likes that Kirstie Alley.
“I wish they showed nothing but the Lucille Roberts commercial on a loop,” Sottile says. “I could watch it my whole life. Especially that one chick on the exercise machine.”
“One day soon they’ll be showing pornos on regular TV,” Pags says. “Mark my words.”
“I’ll take Rebecca,” Donnie says.
“Who?” Sottile says.
Donnie points up at the screen. Kirstie Alley in a blue dress, her hair over her shoulders, standing at the bottom of the front steps in Cheers and laying into Sam Malone about something.
“I’m a Diane guy,” Sottile says.
“Course you are.”
More shots, backed by another round of beers. They’re settling into something good here. Donnie’s feeling loose-limbed, relaxed.
But that third shot sparks an idea.
“We should go get him now,” Donnie says.
“Go get who?” Pags says.
“I got my load on,” Sottile says. “Let’s sit still for a sec, huh?”
Donnie whispers to them, not that Maddie can hear him or even gives a shit what they’re talking about: “We should go get Giuseppe now. Two-to-one odds he’s playing cards with Pete Wang in the back room at Augie’s.”
“You think?” Pags asks.
“He’s not home with his wife, no way. It’s not that late. He’s in the hole to Big Time Tommy, he’s not laying bets over at the club. Where else is he gonna go? You were with me last week when we were on his tail. Trust me. He’s playing cards with Pete Wang.”
“He’s got no dough, how’s he get in a game with Wang?” Sottile asks.
“Always with the fucking questions.” Donnie sucks down his third beer and the rest of Pags’s. He pushes what remains of the money to the edge of the bar. A good tip for grizzled old Maddie with her gin in an olive can and her unfiltered Pall Malls. He stands and leads the charge out of the Wrong Number, grabbing his bat as they exit.
Sottile protests the whole way, insisting he was just starting to feel good, that maybe they should put their energy into going to pick up some streetwalkers in Coney.
Augie’s is a couple of avenues over, a corner deli with a back room where owner Pete Wang holds card games a few nights a week. Donnie doesn’t know shit about cards. Maybe it’s poker or blackjack or fucking Go Fish they play.
But Sottile’s question was legit: If Giuseppe’s scratched out, how’s he pay into the game?
Still, Donnie’s banking on Giuseppe’s presence at Augie’s. These degenerate fucks always find a way. Donnie’s seen enough of them to know. He’s seen them on the job, and he’s seen them in his work for Big Time Tommy. If there’s a ticket on a train that’ll take them lower, they’ll hop the turnstile to board. As his old man used to say, “A chi vuole, non mancano modi.” Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Giuseppe’s wife—Rosemarie’s her name—she’s probably sitting at home, crouched at the kitchen table, praying her rosary. Her no-good husband’s out gambling away whatever they’ve got, and her fuck-up of a son’s trying to throw a lay on a girl probably just got out of her training bra.
Augie’s is dark when they get there, but that doesn’t mean anything. They stand on the opposite corner, leaning against the brick wall of a hair salon.
“So, we do what?” Sottile asks. “Stand here and wait? Or storm in?”
Donnie clanks his bat against the sidewalk. “Let me think.”
What they wind up doing is waiting there, Sottile getting impatient, saying it’d be nice if they’d at least had the presence of mind to bring along a fifth of Jack. Donnie’s plan is to pounce on Giuseppe as soon as he comes out of Augie’s, bring him back to the house, throw him in the trunk of his Ford Tempo, and take him out to the Marine Parkway Bridge. Forget about kneecapping the pathetic shit. Toss him straight in the drink, that’s what Donnie’s thinking. Get this headache off his hands. Give that punk kid Mikey a dead dad to deal with and a debt to inherit. He wants to take something from somebody the way Gabe was taken from him.
“This is ridiculous,” Sottile says.
“Go home,” Donnie says. “Take your tampon out and
get your beauty sleep.”
Pags cracks up.
“Funny,” Sottile says.
It’s another half hour before Giuseppe comes staggering out the side door of Augie’s, his flat cap in his hand, his shoulders slouched. It’s the posture of a perpetual loser. Probably lights candles at the shrine of Our Lady of the Perpetual Loser, the mook. He’s got a three-day beard and dark circles under his eyes. Guy’s a math teacher in real life—he goes to work like this?
“See?” Donnie says. “I got a sixth sense.”
“Now what?” Pags says. “You swinging for the fences again?”
“Follow me.”
Donnie rushes Giuseppe, leading with the bat. Pags and Sottile scramble behind him. Donnie can hear the whiskey in the way they’re walking.
Giuseppe sees him coming and drops to his knees, clasping his hat against his chest, his face full of panic. He knows who they are, of course. They’ve been around plenty before.
“Tell Big Time Tommy I’ll pay in two weeks,” he calls out. “Two weeks is all I need!”
Donnie arrives in front of him and reaches out with the bat, gently pressing it against the tip of Giuseppe’s nose. Some beak this bum’s got. Donnie’s noticed it before, but up close it’s more pronounced, more cock-eyed, more everything. Giuseppe closes his eyes, drops his hat to the ground.
“You’re gonna get twenty-five large in two weeks?” Donnie asks.
Sottile’s looking all around, up and down the avenue, at the closed riot gates of other storefronts, peeling back the shadows for faces. He doesn’t like being out in the open with the guy like this, and maybe he’s right.
“Get up,” Donnie says to Giuseppe.
They walk the few blocks to Donnie’s house, Donnie prodding Giuseppe in the back with the bat the whole way. They encounter two people, a guy in his twenties wearing headphones and another guy, in his forties or fifties, who seems half-loaded. Neither gives them or the bat a second look. Giuseppe tries to talk, tries to finagle his way out of the trouble he’s in, tries to make promises, but every time he opens his mouth Donnie jabs him harder.
City of Margins Page 2
